


Crescendo, Overture

by karotsamused



Series: Scales and Arpeggios [2]
Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karotsamused/pseuds/karotsamused
Summary: Splayed under him, Jinguuji is a vision. His hair has fallen around him in a half halo, his bangs drifting away from his face. His throat is pink, but nowhere near as bright as his cheeks and the bit of his chest that shows from under the collar of his shirt. Husky, soft, he says, “Kiss me.”(A sort-of prequel, set between chapters one and two of Arrangement for Solo, Duet, and Trio)(You don't need to have read it though. If you just want to enjoy Ren and Masa goin' at it that's ok too)





	Crescendo, Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people!  
> I really couldn't get this out of my head until I got it written down.
> 
> If you haven't read Arrangement, that's okay! Heads up though there will be mentions of stuff from that fic that might be confusing, so the short version is: Masa's pretty nervous about being Good At Sex so he's great at initiating an encounter but not so great at reciprocating once Ren's gotten him off, but Ren thinks it's his fault that Masa's not touching him, and eventually crumbles and talks to Tokiya about it. Tokiya's response to Ren is "OH MY GOD TALK TO HIM". Masato catches wind, goes to talk to Tokiya about it, and Tokiya's response to Masato is "OH MY GOD TALK TO HIM". He gives Masa a little more coaching on what, exactly, he ought to say, but that's pretty obvious.
> 
> If you have read Arrangement, hello, yes, I know, I will get back to it I swear.
> 
> AS ALWAYS, love to the Bean for reading things and giving me puns.

When Jinguuji is involved, things escalate.

This is something Masato has known from the moment they met, the two of them dressed as tiny adults watching their families talk and drink and ignore them. Jinguuji had bent down, then, adjusted the garter keeping his socks up with a snap, and asked if Masato wanted to go somewhere else, anywhere else. That was the start, and the evening ended with Masato hastily stuffing his wet feet back into leather shoes he was certain he’d ruined, his pant cuffs dark with water from the decorative pond where he’d lost his balance counting lilies. He squelched when he walked back toward his grandfather, his chin high and his expression set and guiltily grateful that his family didn’t chide him with the harshness Jinguuji’s father showed him, but somehow wondering if he didn’t deserve it more.

(It wasn’t as though Jinguuji always got them into trouble. In fact, they never stepped out of line again, though Jinguuji often made comments under his breath, some far too lewd for an eight-year-old to know the meaning of, just to get Masato’s face to crinkle.)

A tentative camaraderie turned bitter, as things must when warped by position and circumstance and their inherent differences in personality. This, too, moved faster than Masato had expected, until one morning he woke up hating Jinguuji with an aching hollowness he couldn’t interpret, and Jinguuji only stoked what Masato thought was fire by goading him. Jinguuji had everything he wanted. He couldn’t see how Jinguuji would reject it, nor countenance his terrible taste in girlfriends. (How utterly agitating it was to love Nanami until his chest hurt, then watch Jinguuji give her a rose like it was _nothing_ to adore her. In Nanami’s case, he couldn’t blame Jinguuji for falling, even if he could find fault in everything he chose to do about it.)

It took longer than Masato is comfortable admitting for him to realize that hollowness wasn’t hatred. That Jinguuji was pushing him, keeping him angry and envious because he was hiding. That Jinguuji was getting lean, and then thin, and then _skinny_ , and the thought of it made Masato’s blood fizz in his ears with fear and a desperate, gnawing fury. And then he said and did enough to make Jinguuji hate him back, for Jinguuji’s own good, he swears, for Jinguuji’s own good, and slowly, slowly Jinguuji started to put weight back on.

Masato isn’t sure when the looks Jinguuji gave him stopped being murderous, started to soften. He’s not sure when Jinguuji started _considering_ him, that was the only word that came to Masato’s mind, contemplative half-looks from behind his bangs, the periodic dart that would miss its mark and skitter across the floor. It was worse when Kurosaki moved in, briefly, an oppressive third presence that demanded half the room and forced them into closer proximity, so Jinguuji had nowhere else to look _but_ at Masato, and Masato had nowhere to hide. Not that he wanted to hide from Jinguuji.

Upon further consideration, it was actually worse when Kurosaki moved out again. Worse, because without an extra witness, Jinguuji grew bolder. He fixed the impeccable lay of Masato’s clothes for him, caught a brush the instant he dropped it, knew how to make the tea Masato preferred. It was a language, little by little changing the meaning of every gesture Jinguuji made.

Masato still didn’t get it, not until Jinguuji said, “I’m not joking, please forgive me,” and kissed him. The press of his lips had been warm, and soft, and had trembled. Trembled! Like there were a thousand words in Jinguuji’s mouth fighting to get out, like Jinguuji’s pulse was hammering just under his skin, like every ounce of cool had escaped him.

What could Masato do, then, but tilt his head and hold him steady? It was a reflex, unconsidered, the instinct of Jinguuji-is-shaking- _help-him_ overriding his shock.

He gasped belatedly, mostly at his own reaction. But Jinguuji, clever and already having taken Masato’s returned kiss for permission, seized the opportunity to slot their mouths together better, and Masato forgot to breathe entirely.

How, _how_ could Jinguuji’s insincere mouth be so deft, so sweet? He kissed like Masato was delicate, like there were secrets written into their lips he could decipher by touch. The drag of their skins together raised goosebumps on Masato’s arms, made his eyes flutter closed.

Jinguuji reached up to guide his chin. The spell, delicate and iridescent as a soap bubble, broke. Masato jerked backward.

“What - what,” he sputtered, still too close.

Jinguuji backed off, a smile already starting at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Hijirikawa,” he said, his tone a little too husky to be teasing, a little too sincere.

Masato swallowed hard. He said, “What do you mean, you aren’t joking?”

The smile remained. “I couldn’t take it any more.”

The want on Jinguuji was palpable, but it wasn’t like the want he wore onstage. It wasn’t a sinuous roll of hips, not the eyes he turned on the camera, not the low, dreamy curl of his voice in recordings. It wasn’t the want Masato expected out of him.

To start, this want was a thousand times more potent, and that - and its attendant implications - was _terrifying_.

Masato said, “And now?”

“I can keep it together,” Jinguuji said, watching his face.

With a shuddery little sigh, Masato said, “See that you do.”

It was a credit to Jinguuji that his expression didn’t shutter. That Jinguuji didn’t stop entirely, took the admission for what it was. A plea for patience and time.

Only Jinguuji, who knew him down to the spiderweb threads of his veins, could have survived him.

Of course, because it was Jinguuji, things escalated. But because it was Jinguuji, Masato never got the chance to run from him. Whenever he backed down, so did Jinguuji. And maybe some people would have preferred to be pursued, but to Masato it would have made his stomach clench unpleasantly, guilty over his own hesitance.

Jinguuji never, _never_ pushed, not after that first kiss. Instead, he asked, coaxed, until Masato’s mouth came open under his like it was natural. Until Masato started kissing first, when he was overcome.

(Masato’s favorites, for a long time, were the cold, minty kisses stolen just after Jinguuji brushed his teeth. He got to feel Jinguuji’s mouth warm up slow against his, got to taste the tender softness on the inside of his lips, stroking their tongues together until Jinguuji stopped tasting like toothpaste and just tasted like _them_.)

It didn’t take as long as Masato expected for him to cave further. How could it, when Jinguuji was involved? When Jinguuji never made a secret of sleeping nude, never hid his body, sometimes got a little stupid with how loosely he wore his pants, so they clung well below the level of decency, a handspan of space between the dimples at the base of his spine and the waistband.

(No, it didn’t take Masato long to cave at all. Jinguuji taught him how to want in ways he hadn’t thought he could, snapping from annoyance right into a different kind of agitation.)

Those _stupid_ sweatpants. The ones Jinguuji wore that were so old the waistband had no elasticity left, reliant solely on the drawstring he _neglected to tie_. When Masato took hold of the strings, he meant to tie them, and tightly, but the backs of his knuckles definitely brushed the — oh. Oh, Jinguuji’s stomach drew tight on a gasp, and time froze, time _froze_ as Masato lifted his eyes to meet Jinguuji’s face. Throat-choking lust, and nerves, and anticipation, and the sharp points of Jinguuji’s teeth digging into his lip.

“Hijiri,” he breathed, soft.

Masato found his tongue. “I. You need to stop wearing those.”

“I can take them off,” Jinguuji offered. And then, more softly, “I could take yours, too.”

“No,” Masato said, even as he tugged on the drawstring, pulling Jinguuji closer to him. “Keep them.”

Jinguuji’s belly was warm and soft on the back of his hand. He didn’t catch himself.

It moved so quickly, from that moment of tension and acceptance to the electric slide of their hips together, Jinguuji’s tongue teasing the edges of Masato’s breaths as they shuddered out of him, the both of them dizzy with sensation. Jinguuji’s sweats gave up the fight and Masato pressed his fingers to Jinguuji’s hips, and Jinguuji hissed at the roughness of Masato’s jeans on his bare skin

And Masato will never forget, _never forget_ the first time he watched Jinguuji’s cock grow harder, thicker, as Jinguuji cradled it in one hand, protective and needy at once, his other hand fighting Masato’s jeans open and down. Nor the first jolt of near-unbearable pleasure when Jinguuji succeeded and pressed their bodies together like the space between them was an insult, skin and muscle and Jinguuji’s voice going weak as it caught on his breath.

Masato could only watch him, his heart slowly catching flame. Jinguuji took them both apart so expertly he had to cling, his fingers digging furrows in Jinguuji’s soft t-shirt. He came, he came like a hiccup, a surprise and a spasm and his brain echoing _so that’s what it’s like_ , and Jinguuji whispering, “Oh, look at you, oh my God,” reverent like a prayer, and falling right after him, his mouth hot and wet on Masato’s neck.

It was the first of many, somehow. Jinguuji was patient, waiting for Masato to initiate each time, never pushing. He guided them both, letting Masato get accustomed to him. Like Masato was a wild animal, though he never said a word to the effect. He seemed perfectly contented. But it tied Masato in knots nonetheless.

It wasn’t that Jinguuji did anything wrong. It was the opposite. He was good, maybe too good. The kind of good that spoke of experience. He’d had a girlfriend, though Masato never asked how far they’d gone. He had confidence. Masato had… had willpower, but none of Jinguuji’s bravery. Masato knew it wasn’t perfect, probably wasn’t satisfying Jinguuji in the least, but he couldn’t get past the fear.

And then Jinguuji went and talked to _Ichinose Tokiya_ about it.

All Masato knew to start was that Jinguuji went into Ichinose’s room tense and emerged relaxed. But then he’d said, “You know I’m happy, don’t you?” and it just clicked. Jinguuji never felt the need to say things like that. They’d always taken things for granted, the two of them, from the way they knew each other’s whole lives to the slick-slide of their mouths together, why the hell would Jinguuji ever feel the need to tell him unless he _wasn’t_.

Masato kept it together, said, “Of course I do,” on auto-pilot, and he must have hidden it from Jinguuji well enough because Jinguuji nodded and moved on. He had somewhere else to be, so that Masato could confront Ichinose. (He never intended a confrontation, but by the time he made it to the point of knocking on Ichinose’s door he was shaking, emotions riding high in his chest. He forgot to thank Ichinose for his calm.)

And now… now, Masato is walking from a practice room back to his own dorm, Ichinose’s advice and the weight of history pressing down on his back.

_I don’t know how to do this. Please help me._

The words sounded so simple in Ichinose’s voice, the echoes of piano music receding like a wave.

Now, Masato is standing still in front of his own dorm, his hand inches from the handle.

_I don’t know how to do this. Please help me._

Could that be enough? Ichinose seemed to think so. Of all the things he’s asked Jinguuji to understand, this would be more explicit than a gesture, or a facial expression.

Now, Masato turns the handle. The door swings inward.

Jinguuji is there, sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, his hair loose around his shoulders. He’s leaned forward, focused on his phone.

Masato closes the door. Reaches behind him, turns the lock. The bolt slides home. His decision is made.

“I’m home, Jinguuji.”

Jinguuji looks up from his phone after two full seconds. It takes him a moment to focus, but then his mouth quirks. “Welcome home, Hijirikawa. I didn’t think you had anything scheduled tonight.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.” He hasn’t left the doorway, he realizes. He moves forward two steps, stops. “I.”

Jinguuji sets his phone down. “Something happen?”

Masato closes his eyes. Takes a breath. He can do this.

_That’s it, that’s all you have to say. I swear to you, go talk to him._

“I. I don’t know how to do this. Please help me.”

His voice is so small.

Jinguuji is quiet for a long moment, clearly trying to parse the declaration. He has always regarded Masato as a series of codes to decipher, some far easier than others. Masato has never enjoyed the moments when he was too easy for Jinguuji to figure out. But being obtuse… that’s hurt them, too.

Softly, softly, Jinguuji says, “I… want to help you. But with what?”

Masato swallows. “I spoke to Ichinose.”

Shocked, high color rises to Jinguuji’s face. “You — wait. You… want help?”

“Yes.” Masato nods. “Please.”

Jinguuji’s phone buzzes. He doesn’t spare it a glance, just shoves it under his pillow with an errant swipe of his hand. “I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want.”

Annoyance twinges at the back of Masato’s tongue. “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t ask.”

Jinguuji huffs out a laugh. “Right, okay. Then. Come here?”

He makes it a few more steps toward Jinguuji’s bed before he pauses. “What are you…what will we be doing?”

Jinguuji lets out a slow breath. “It’s up to you. I was going to ask you to sit in my lap.” He unfolds from his cross-legged position, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. “Pin me down, keep you in control. Sound okay?”

“I wish you would stop talking like I’m going to bolt.”

“Aren’t you?” Jinguuji’s tone doesn’t have judgment in it. But neither is it resigned. He states it like a fact, without accusation, and that’s enough to get Masato to move, to slide onto the bed over him, his knees bracketing Jinguuji’s thighs, his jaw set.

“No,” he says.

Jinguuji rests back on his hands, a smile starting at the corners of his mouth. “Oh. Hello.”

Insufferable! (Not Jinguuji’s tone, nor his pleasure, but Masato’s own hesitance and shame and nerves—) Masato leans in to kiss him, but it’s wrong, it’s irked and shaky and Jinguuji doesn’t take control of it and soothe him, so Masato has to soften his own mouth. Jinguuji opens for him, his lips plush and gentle and waiting.

Breathe. This part he knows. This part he’s done before. Lets their tongues slide over one another, tastes the hint of cinnamon on Jiguuji’s breath, hot and slick-drag soft. Still, Jinguuji doesn’t try to guide him, instead accepts whatever he tries without complaint. He takes Masato’s tongue, lets him trace the edges of his lips and the sharp points and hard planes of his teeth. He gasps, just barely, when Masato sucks Jinguuji’s lower lip into his mouth, bites just hard enough to be sharp.

Masato’s hands find Jinguuji’s shoulders, curling in the soft jersey over them. Jinguuji’s whole body is warm, steady. He can feel how even Jinguuji’s breaths are, betrayed only by that one gasp. By this point, if Jinguuji were guiding them, Masato would already have serious cracks in his composure. Wouldn’t he?

No, by now Jinguuji would — have their bodies closer, his hands moving, his mouth — Masato pulls back, licking his lips.

Jinguuji’s eyes flutter open. “Okay?”

“Quite,” says Masato. He flexes his hands on Jinguuji’s shoulders.

“Yeah?” Jinguuji’s tone is almost teasing, but it drops low, breathy, when Masato leans in and licks over the point of his jaw. “Oh - oh. Yeah.”

He knows he has to be careful, has to keep Jinguuji’s skin unblemished, so he keeps his teeth to himself. But Jinguuji is so soft, here, it’s nice to run his lips over. Nice to suck, just a little, at that vulnerable skin. And when he sucks, Jinguuji makes quiet sounds, his jaw working but not quite forming words.

Masato presses the flat of his tongue over Jinguuji’s pulse and Jinguuji’s head falls back. And that’s good to get Jinguuji’s hair out of the way, but it puts him in the wrong position, offsets their balance, so Masato lifts one hand and catches Jinguuji’s head, guiding him back up. Like this, he can feel Jinguuji’s heartbeat in his lips, can find all the soft, tender places along the line of his throat. Jinguuji smells like warm skin, the softness of him almost addictive on Masato’s tongue.

To keep him from moving, Masato shifts his hand to the side of Jinguuji’s neck. He strokes his thumb in mindless circles over his Adam’s apple, doesn’t realize for far too long that Jinguuji has basically stopped breathing.

He pulls back, his own breath rough in his chest.

Jinguuji’s holding himself taut, his hands fisted in the comforter, his eyes unfocused.

Masato watches his face. He presses his thumb just a little harder against Jinguuji’s throat. Jinguuji swallows against the pressure.

“Good?”

When Jinguuji tries to nod, Masato’s grip stops him. He shivers. “Yeah. Good.”

Masato feels a little like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, his weight on his heels, the wind at his back pushing him forward.

He lifts his other hand to Jinguuji’s throat, cradles him in both hands. Jinguuji gazes up at him. The pressure of his trust is heady.

Masato lets their lips brush together. Jinguuji moans. Gently, so gently, Masato licks into his mouth. Jinguuji’s jaw drops, letting him in, and this time he’s so sweet about it Masato can almost taste it. His heart swells, thudding in his throat, God, all of him feels so warm, so _protective_. He draws his thumbs down Jinguuji’s throat, savoring the sounds Jinguuji makes for him. Only him, these sounds are his, now.

The thought rushes through him like icewater. He stops.

Panting, Jinguuji mumbles, “Baby — hey.”

They never talked about keeping, only wanting. But is it so bad to have this softer, weaker side of Jinguuji to himself for now? He could get hooked on it, getting Jinguuji to go pliant in his grip, a secret he gets. For now. Just for now.

Jinguuji’s hands come to rest on Masato’s thighs, light and careful.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “Hijirikawa.”

Masato takes a steadying breath. He rubs his thumbs over Jinguuji’s jaw. “You should be talking more, I think.”

Jinguuji’s eyes close, reopen slowly. “Talking?”

“Yes. Tell me,” says Masato. He moves his hands to Jinguuji’s shoulders and pushes hard enough to knock him onto his back. Jinguuji makes no move to catch himself. Masato rises onto his knees, catches Jinguuji’s wrists. “Now what?”

Splayed under him, Jinguuji is a vision. His hair has fallen around him in a half halo, his bangs drifting away from his face. His throat is pink, but nowhere near as bright as his cheeks and the bit of his chest that shows from under the collar of his shirt. Husky, soft, he says, “Kiss me.”

Masato rests his weight on his elbows, keeps their bodies apart as he bends to kiss Jinguuji. He can feel Jinguuji’s hands roaming from his thighs, up his sides to rest on his shoulders, but he doesn’t pull Masato down any further. He just hums, pleased, into the press of their lips. Feeling bold, Masato bites his lower lip, kisses his chin to push it up and expose the column of his throat.

Jinguuji goes willingly, his breath catching at the scrape of Masato’s teeth. And Masato won’t dare anything that could leave a mark, can’t risk it, but he’s learning just how much Jinguuji’s skin can take. It’s worth it for the way it makes Jinguuji shake, fingers twitching tighter on Masato’s back. He’s mumbling mindless encouragement, gasping when Masato bites down, calling him _baby_. But still, he’s careful, his body held flat, his hands tight on Masato’s shoulders but not forcing him.

God, _God_ he’s precious. How could Masato not see it before? His own fear was in the way, so he could never appreciate this properly. He feathers gentle kisses over Jinguuji’s throat, nips at his collarbones, threads his hands into Jinguuji’s hair and cradles his head.

It’s just the softest whisper, shuddering on the edge of a breath. “Pull?”

Oh, Masato does, curls his fingers tight and hauls back on Jinguuji’s hair, arching him off the bed. And Jinguuji’s bright, sweet cry vibrates through his lips where they’re pressed to his skin. But it’s loud, too loud — he lifts his head and says, “Shh, easy.”

Jinguuji husks, “Sorry,” but he doesn’t look it at all, smiling and breathless. Masato’s grip eases, and he relaxes back down. “Found a new button.”

“Seems so,” says Masato, moving his hands to hold the sides of Jinguuji’s neck. “I’ll remember it.”

“Nn-hm,” Jinguuji mumbles, flushed warm over his cheeks. “Just, uh. Surprised me.”

Masato swallows. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” says Jinguuji, starting to grin. “Can definitely keep going, if you’re game.”

After a slow breath, Masato says, “I am.”

Jinguuji rubs soft circles over Masato’s back. “Can we get my shirt off, baby? Just, be firm about it.”

“Firm,” Masato repeats, agreeing. He sits up again, and when he takes hold of the hem of Jinguuji’s shirt, he’s careful not to brush against his belly. (Jinguuji might be the most ticklish person he knows, and the last thing they need is for Jinguuji to jackknife now.) Instead, he moves his hands to Jinguuji’s sides, working his shirt up until it’s high enough that Jinguuji takes over for him, pulling fabric up over his head and leaving it, his hands tangled.

Masato kisses the center of his chest.

Jinguuji is lean, but he’s got muscle on him now. He’s filled out, no longer a gangly teenager. Sometimes, with all the layers he wears, the sweaters and scarves, fine coats and fashionable tops, he’s still hides his shape. But here Masato can really see him, every curve and plane, every tiny scar and spot and imperfection, the way his body hair is soft and blond and fine down his belly.

(Jinguuji used to think it was funny to prove he was a natural redhead, reaching exaggeratedly for his belt before leaning in, swift and sharp, to show that even his eyelashes were orange at the roots.)

“Yours too?” Jinguuji asks, hope making his tone light.

It takes Masato a moment to remember what Jinguuji means. He sits up, looking down at them both - oh, his shirt. He hums a little, lifting the hem. And. Stops.

“Why should I?” he asks, and it starts as a reasonable question, and ends low, as the words register and Jinguuji looks at him like every syllable is a dare.

“Want to see you,” Jinguuji murmurs, “want to touch you.”

Masato swallows. “You always do that.”

“Still want to,” Jinguuji says. He gets his hands free of his shirt and puts them on Masato’s hips, squeezing. “I’ll be good, I promise. Just want to get my hands on you, just a little. I won’t take over.”

“Oh really?” Masato says, trying to be arch.

But Jinguuji’s a vision, and his moment of hesitation gives Jinguuji the opening to sit up and kiss him like he’s been holding back. He works his hands up under Masato’s shirt, scrapes blunt nails over his back. He says, “Yeah, really,” into Masato’s mouth.

It’s so easy to cave, to just loop his arms around Jinguuji’s neck and lean in to Jinguuji’s confident touch. And then his shirt’s gone, and Jinguuji is sucking on his tongue, his hands hot as brands on Masato’s skin. He draws his palms down Masato’s sides, and back up, brushes his thumbs over Masato’s nipples.

He’s still embarrassed at how quickly he responds to that, heat flooding his chest. He gasps when Jinguuji gets bolder, presses harder, rolling Masato’s nipples under his thumbs. And Jinguuji purrs, slitting his eyes open to watch Masato flush. Masato arches, the sensitive skin of his belly pressing to Jinguuji’s, and below, the first hint of pressure to his cock.

Jinguuji always made this part look easy, but maybe it’s because Masato can barely think after holding back so long. He’s finally getting touched in return, God, it’s just instinct to spread his knees and drop into Jinguuji’s lap, grinding against him. Jinguuji’s hands curl over Masato’s hips, holding him down, his fingers slipping below the waistband of his slacks. His hands are big, broad, sure-fingered. He guides Masato into it, angling their hips together so they fit, and moaning when Masato wraps both hands around his neck and holds him tight.

“Slow,” Masato breathes, rolling his hips down as slowly, as firmly as he can. He can feel the shudder work its way up Jinguuji’s body as he complies.

“Touch me, baby, _please_ , I’m gonna lose it,” says Jinguuji in a rough whisper.

Spurred by adrenaline, Masato lets go with one hand, presses his palm over Jinguuji’s cock through his pants. Jinguuji’s mouth falls open, his brows drawing together. Oh, Masato can do this, he can do this, can trace his fingers along the outline of Jinguuji’s cock, can pull his waistband away from his belly and laugh at him, laugh because Jinguuji has never met a pair of pajama pants he’s wanted to wear underwear with and now is no exception.

And watching Jinguuji’s cock get harder is nothing on feeling it, the heat and soft skin and the needy way it presses into his palm. His hand curls around Jinguuji’s cock and Jinguuji’s next breath punches out of him, and Jinguuji says, “yeah, yes,” all rushed and low, and then Jinguuji’s hand joins Masato’s and he shows him how to move. A little tight, a little slow, taking their time. Like Jinguuji doesn’t think he’ll bolt anymore, but he wants to savor this moment in case it never happens again.

(He’s wrong, Masato realizes, and maybe Masato is going to like proving that to him.)

Without Jinguuji actively trying to take him apart, Masato can get his bearings. He can feel Jinguuji’s pulse hammering under his other hand, the way he swallows hard just to test Masato’s grip on his throat. And Masato hadn’t expected to feel the way he does, but their hands together on Jinguuji’s cock make such a nice picture. Jinguuji’s beautiful, all of him, and he makes it so easy, flexing into their grip. Masato watches, almost like his hand isn’t his own, as he rubs his thumb over the head of Jinguuji’s cock, oh, he’s just a little slick there, so Masato lingers just to feel it, and Jinguuji doesn’t try to force him to stop. Not like he wants to, not from the rough, wounded noises escaping on his breath. Masato presses their foreheads together to be close, unable to look away.

Jinguuji says, “Good, that’s good, you’re so,” and his stomach goes tense, and his free hand catches the back of Masato’s head and guides their mouths together to muffle the sound he makes so Masato has to swallow it. He comes into their hands with little stutter-sharp jerks and has the nerve, the absolute _nerve_ to slip Masato his tongue before Masato’s got a handle on what’s going on, tasting the shocked gasp Masato takes when he realizes.

Still, their hands move together, smeared with slick in the aftermath, gentling Jinguuji back down to. Masato pulls back from the kiss to watch, feeling him go soft. And how surreal, now, to feel something like tenderness. But he does, he can’t deny it, can’t hide when Jinguuji’s watching his face.

Soft, soft, Jinguuji says, “Hijirikawa?”

Masato loosens his grip on Jinguuji’s throat. He almost expects to see his handprint there like a brand. Jinguuji takes a deeper breath, shivering.

“Are you… was that…?” Masato begins, then falters. Jinguuji’s hand is so steady on the back of his neck. And his other hand… well, it’s steady too.

“Uh huh,” Jinguuji says, starting to smile. “You okay?”

Masato swallows. He thinks so, opens his mouth to say as much, but his voice stops in his throat. Jinguuji’s caught him by the wrist, pulling Masato’s come-slick hand up between them, sucking at the soft crescent between his forefinger and thumb. His tongue traces over Masato’s palm, warm and wet and writhing, and Masato knows he’s gaping like a fish but Jinguuji’s watching him, licking him clean like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted and Masato’s so painfully aroused he can barely keep his balance.

“My turn?” Jinguuji murmurs.

Masato manages a nod before Jinguuji’s moving, shifting back on the bed and pulling Masato with him until he can get Masato on his back, can hitch his pants back up over his hips, can grab his discarded shirt and wipe their hands clean the rest of the way. But Masato is distracted by the firm, generous pressure of Jinguuji’s thigh between his, has been since his shoulders hit the bed. And Jinguuji keeps it up, even as he bends to bite his way down Masato’s chest, so Masato is torn between arching up into his mouth and grinding down against his leg, and God, it’s so hot, he can’t catch his breath—

“I’m here, hold on,” Jinguuji soothes, sucking Masato’s nipple between his teeth, rocking with him when the sharp-bright pain of it makes him gasp. His hands are so sure on Masato’s pants, his zipper, drawing them down and freeing him, oh, Masato winds his hands into Jinguuji’s hair and hisses through his teeth, stunned. Jinguuji moans, low and encouraging, palms Masato’s cock and strokes him, scrapes his teeth over Masato’s ribs, sucks Masato’s cock past his lips, his tongue curling, and Masato can’t take it, can’t stop, can only fist his hands in Jinguuji’s hair and come, molten gold in his spine and his breath like a wild thing thrashing in his chest. Oh, his hands ache and his heels slip on the comforter and he’s just lost to the heat of Jinguuji’s touch, perfect until it’s too much, until Masato’s heart is in his throat and his fingers don’t work and Jinguuji’s just licking him clean like it’s easy, like it’s good for him, too.

Wincing, Masato pulls him up. “Enough.”

Jinguuji crawls up over him, tonguing the corner of his mouth. “We have to get better at making that last.”

“What?” Masato mumbles, embarrassment starting to creep in. He knows he came quickly, was it too quick, was it bad?

Jinguuji lays on his side next to Masato, drapes his naked body right on top of him and smiles. “I only got to blow you at the very end. Want more. ’S that okay?”

“I can’t,” Masato says, horrified, starting to shrink away.

Jinguuji’s grip on him tightens. “In a minute, baby. I can wait. I’ll wait.”

Masato covers his face with both his hands. “Oh. Then.”

It would be rude to complain about Jinguuji’s breath when it’s his own fault, wouldn’t it. Still, he wrinkles his nose when Jinguuji headbutts him, getting into his space. “Hijirikawa-a. You’re not regretting it already, are you?”

“Shut up,” says Masato, without venom. He lets his hands fall, blinks up at the ceiling.

There’s a low buzz. Jinguuji huffs, then pushes himself up on his elbows to get his phone from under his pillow. After a glance at the screen, he puts it back. “Not urgent.”

“No plans tonight, I thought,” Masato agrees.

Jinguuji hums. He settles again, leaning his cheek against Masato’s shoulder. But, because he’s Jinguuji, he can’t let the quiet stretch for long.

“So-o. What did Ichi say to you?”

“Absolutely not,” says Masato, turning his face away.

To his surprise, Jinguuji just laughs. “Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. As long as … really, you’re alright?”

Masato sighs, but he can’t summon any real annoyance. In truth, the fog of his embarrassment has been burned away by a hot, giddy wriggle in the pit of his stomach, one that armor-coats his confidence and tells him, _you did this, you can do it again._

And, well. In a situation like this, with an opening like that, Jinguuji would… escalate.

If he moves his hand, the backs of his fingers brush through the hair at the base of Jinguuji’s cock. And if he shifts just right, he can grip it at the base and squeeze. Jinguuji’s eyes widen, his concern evaporating.

With one slow, promising stroke, Masato says, “I told you to _shut up_.”

Blissfully, Jinguuji does.


End file.
